


50. Be you. No one else can.

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23033314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: “I  want to help you,” Sherlock explained, trying to break his thoughts  into bite-sized pieces. “Who can I be - what sort of company do you need  - to make things better? You don’t need a consulting detective or rogue  scientist just now; you don’t needSherlock Holmes. I’m very good at acting a part, however. Oh! Do you want a catalogue of my disguises?”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 11
Kudos: 158





	50. Be you. No one else can.

“What…what do you need right now?” Sherlock asked, struggling in too many ways to settle on one and try to sort it out. The unfamiliar sight of John, stoic soldier John, crumpled into the corner of the couch and visibly struggling not to weep was by itself enough to put the self-proclaimed sociopath into a flutter. Add to this the impulse to both flee the emotional scene and throw himself at John in a childish desire to give comfort, plus the immobilizing terror of doing exactly the wrong thing, and Sherlock was experiencing the entire array of fight, flight, freeze, and fawn responses.

“Nothing,” came the muffled, alarmingly stuffy-nosed reply.

“I wasn’t offering tea or jam,” Sherlock clarified. “Though if you’d wished it I would have conjured some up. I suppose I should have said… _who_ do you need?”

He seemingly _failed_ to clarify, sadly. John lifted his head, frowning in obvious puzzlement.

“I don’t…what?” the blond asked plaintively, too worn down or worked up to put in the effort to translate Holmes into English.

“I want to help you,” Sherlock explained, trying to break his thoughts into bite-sized pieces. “Who can I be - what sort of company do you need - to make things better? You don’t need a consulting detective or rogue scientist just now; you don’t need _Sherlock Holmes_. I’m very good at acting a part, however. Oh! Do you want a catalogue of my disguises?”

John’s eyebrows stayed fixed in their scrunched-together, uncertain quirk, and then suddenly his expression softened and he huffed a faint laugh.

“Come here, you tit,” John said, patting the bit of cushion right next to him. Sherlock obligingly perched, all attentive and awaiting further instruction.

“I don’t want you to slip into any disguises.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, disappointed. “Right, of course, that would be…” Silly, stupid, insufficient. He waved away the sting of rejection and then pulled his shoulders back, determined to do what he could.

“Should I call someone, then? Lestrade, or Stamford, perhaps an old Army mate?” _Please don’t ask me to ring up one of your girlfriends_ , Sherlock silently begged. _Oh, grievous insult to injury!_

“No, that’s not what I meant. Just you is fine, Sherlock.” John smiled, but it was such a tired, sorrowful replica of his usual smiles and grins and laugh precursors.

“I am anything but fine in this situation,” Sherlock replied with some scorn, but was interrupted before he could get into any explanation or exposition.

“Shouldn’t have said ‘just’ actually. _You’re_ fine. More than, in fact. You’re my best friend and a literal life-saver and just…I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sherlock. Really. And thank you, by the way, for the offer. For worrying. For wanting to help.” John swiped a hand down his face, sighing into his palm.

“What a day…” he muttered, and fell back into the couch cushions with one arm thrown across his eyes. “I want…oh hell, what I honestly, truly want is to eat disgustingly greasy noodles with scalding hot tea, and then to be cuddled and petted while I stare at some uninteresting documentary or nature program on the telly and try to I forget for a few hours that I can’t save everyone who walks into my exam room.”

Sherlock pondered this for a moment and then hesitatingly repeated the order back.

“I’ll…call Pearl Garden, then, and put the kettle on, and I think there’s an archeology marathon being broadcast. Is it…is it Jenny that you want me to ring up? Or Julie, was it?”

John peeked out from under his forearm. He seemed to be frowning again, though it was difficult to tell without a better view of his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Jessie? Jackie?”

“Pearl Garden and tea, yes please,” John said. “Archeology marathon, fine. Gemma, no. God no, she chucked me months ago. I meant…well, I was thinking of you, for the…um. Company. Only if you’re okay with it. Just sharing the couch is fine, too. We don’t need to…um. Touch. _Be_ touching! Be _in contact!!_ I know sentiment’s not your area and all that. Just thought…well, you were asking, so…”

John cut himself off and retreated beneath his arm again with a frustrated grumble-groan that sounded like “dust doodles and pee-pees”.

Sherlock successfully translated this muffled request and went to the kitchen to order every possible combination of meat and noodle that Pearl Garden offered and to begin heating up a liter of ice water in the sacred chemical-free tea-only I-mean-it-Sherlock kettle. Those tasks accomplished, he padded back to the living room, hustled the telly out from its corner, and began channel surfing.

“Flip over and scoot down,” he commanded, nudging John with one knee while he pecked away at the remote. He saw John uncurl a bit and peer up at him, but kept his gaze locked on to the television.

_Ooh, Asian giant hornet documentary…_

“Will this do for now?” he asked, faux-nonchalant, and aggressively forced himself into the corner that John was still half-occupying.

“What are you–” John asked, but Sherlock interrupted, gesturing with the remote.

“This nature documentary. We can switch to archaeology after this is over, of course. But we’ve got about twenty minutes before the food arrives, and the kettle will take a bit as well. I want to use this time to determine the optimal positioning for our post-meal cuddling, and I’ll need some feedback on my hair-petting technique as well.”

Sherlock stared at the laxative commercial currently on-screen as if solving a locked-vault quintuple murder depended on it. The silence from his couchmate was unnerving, but soon enough John snorted and settled against his shoulder.

“Bees are fine.“

“Hornets, John, really. Just look at the thorax.”

“Shut up and cuddle me.”


End file.
